


Overcome

by Kenocka



Series: Adventures In Etrua [2]
Category: Pokemon
Genre: Gen, Original Character - Freeform, trigger warning, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3054740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenocka/pseuds/Kenocka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosabelle was a name belonging to a long-deceased great-grandmother, Leah to her mother's friend, Delilah to an aunt, and Rutherford was her father's. Belle was hers, though, all hers. A lazy smile graced her lips, even as she shuddered in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overcome

**Author's Note:**

> Contains self-harm.

Rosabelle. Rosabelle Leah Delilah Rutherford. That was her name. It didn't  _feel_  like her name, though, not right now. Or rather, she didn't want it to be her name. Acknowledging that would be acknowledging her identity, and in turn that she had caused the deaths of two people close to her in as many years. For as long as she could remember, nearly everyone called her 'Belle'. Her friends did, her father did, and even some of the teachers did. Her mother still called her 'Rosabelle', though, and the servants 'Ms Rutherford'. Rosabelle was a name belonging to a long-deceased great-grandmother, Leah to her mother's friend, Delilah to an aunt, and Rutherford was her father's. Belle was hers, though, all hers. She smiled slightly at that, but it was a grim, twisted curve that would never reach her eyes. She turned the water off, resting her head against the cool white tile. White. That was her hair colour. It was the colour of everything in this bathroom, the colour of purity and innocence and wonderful things. It was also the colour of death, contrary to popular belief. Black is the colour of mourning, which is why people wear it at funerals, although they often don't know why, but it always used to be white. _White. Pure. Perfect. Innocent. Flawless._  She lifted her head, and glanced across to the mirror, which reflected her pale face. Yes. Pale. Good. She stepped out of the shower and towelled herself off, before unceremoniously dropping it down the washing chute. She put on her white undergarments, putting light make-up on the red splotches that the water had temporarily given her. Then, she reached over to where the dress was hung up, drifting her fingers over the garment. Suddenly, she was gripping it, hot liquid spilling down her cheeks. She forced herself to exhale, calming herself. This wasn't about her. This was about Helena and Roger. She let up her grip on the fabric, lifting it off the hook and sliding it over her body. It took a few moments to settle into place, but it did. She zipped herself up, staring into the mirror again as she did so. Once that was done, she would begin the make-up. She refused to go down looking like a mess.

She dusted the foundation over her face, paling it a little. Her lipstick was ruby red, a stark contrast to the skin. Mascara, a little eyeliner and barely-there eye-shadow completed it. Her snow-white hair was curled, so that it reached her stomach in length. Belle then proceeded to put on her light blue heels. She’d had them for a number of years she couldn’t quite recall, but hadn’t worn them since two years ago. A strangled sob emerged from her throat, but she shoved it back. Not now, she was busy. She let out another shaky breath, putting the finishing touches on her look where necessary. She could do this. She then moved over and settled into the bathtub, and took a moment to think. She wasn’t going to start right away, that would be silly. She needed to think before letting it all go, so she shut her eyes, tipping her head back and  _remembering._  
  
It had been dark that night. You could see the stars sparkling away, watching them. She had stumbled out, Dean’s arm wrapped tightly around her even as he had to support himself on the doorframe. It was late – or early, she didn’t know. They had moved towards the parking lot, her chauffeur watching her disapprovingly. He asked her if she was going home. Well, obviously. Helena was starting to drive, and she wanted to prove she could go home by herself. She had said no, but she insisted, claiming she was fine. That was the thing. Helena  _was_  fine. Reluctantly she agreed, climbing in the car with Dean and Yvonne, and they drove off, Helena in front of them. A lane merged into theirs, but they never thought anything of it, until the sudden flash of light that shot across her car, and then there was a bang, and she didn’t know how it happened, but she was lying half-conscious with someone pulling at her. She tasted coppery liquid in her mouth. Ew. She remembered looking up and seeing Yvonne, quivering with tears running down her cheeks and blood at her temple. She was then pulled out of the car, and laid onto the frosted-over grass. After that, sweet blackness claimed her. She had awoken in the hospital sometime later. Her father was there, but her mother wasn’t. She was not surprised. They told her what had happened – a man, half-drunk and being chased by the police, wasn’t looking where he was going and slammed into her at the merging point. She was killed instantly. Had her chauffeur not swerved as quickly as he did, she would be dead, too. Unfortunately, he just clipped the corner of Helena’s car and was sent spinning into a ditch. All four of them would be fine. Helena wouldn’t. That was what ate at her the most – she would gladly have switched places with her. Helena had so much more to offer – she was smart, kind, funny, popular, endlessly generous . . . she was who Belle had secretly hoped to be. And now she was gone. She wasn’t stupid, she knew it was her fault. She could have easily persuaded her to not drive, but nooo.  
  
Cool metal met her fingers, and she slid her hand down to grip the handle of the knife. Not yet, but soon, oh, so soon.  
  
Belle shut her eyes again, fighting back the apparently inevitable tears. Her father’s face slid easily to the forefront of her mind and she relaxed, letting herself focus on that for a minute. His smile was there, of course. Then there was his absurd facial hair, which she heartily disapproved of, but had never had the heart to tell him so. His complexion was darker than hers, which was logical, seeing as she had lived in the snowy town of Iclea for her whole life, while he travelled the region and world at will. His hair was dark brown, unlike hers. She got her hair colour from her mother, which was apparently a mutated gene. Wonderful. Like that didn’t make her feel like a freak, but she’d always been told that it was that which made her special and stood out from the others. His eyes were hers, a deep green. In science, they’d showed them studies about how eye colours worked – people living farther north, that is to say, places like Iclea or on the mountains where there was a lot of snow and a colder climate, would often have blue eyes, to see better. People who lived in plains, like their ancestors, had brown eyes, which would later mutate to fit into their surroundings. She’d found this fascinating, given that nearly everyone there had blue eyes, whilst she and her father maintained their green ones. Personally, she’d thought it was pretty cool at the time, that she had something to share with him.  
  
She let out a little sigh, eyes flicking restlessly under their lids. Her father laughing, smiling, joking, always working.  _Always_  working. Until his dying hour, he worked. She’d asked to see what project he was working on when he was killed, but apparently no one was intelligent enough to get past his firewall – but, ‘they had their best working on it’. Maybe that was the worst part, not knowing what he was doing. His technology had been stolen, the vast majority of it, at least, all the parts that couldn’t be easily replaced, but he must have had some sort of computerised back-up, right? Well,  _she wouldn’t know,_  because the stupid police can’t  _bypass the bloody firewall._  She forced herself to be calm again. Anger would solve nothing, including the incompetence of others. If she hadn’t left to do what she wanted, she knew she could’ve persuaded him to stay. She  _knew_  it. If nothing else, he occasionally listened to her. His PA was devastated, and she hadn’t missed the accusing look in her eyes. Yes, she knew it, too. It was her fault. It must have driven him further, knowing that she wasn’t at home for him to see. Or was that her just being self-centred? On nights that she was out, he often worked late, but hadn’t been doing so recently. If she hadn’t left, he wouldn’t be gone. He would still be here. He would have come home. He would have seen her. He would have known that she didn’t intend to hurt him, that she just wanted to figure some things out for herself. He would still be tangible, still be able to be hugged or scolded for his novelty ties that she  _knew_  he only wore to get a giggle-snort out of her. That’s what she was going to fix, though. There was no reason to part with him, not when she didn’t have to. She smiled.  
  
Her pale fingers ran the length of the knife again, adrenaline spiking in her veins. So close.  
  
There really was no one else. Her mother? She would be glad for the lost burden of a daughter she didn’t understand. She could have the inheritance and the house and the various beaches dotted across the region. They were intended as simply get-away location for a little peace for a few days, but she didn’t doubt her mother could do something with them – do them up to silly extremes and sell them to the highest bidder. It wouldn’t surprise her. She would do it justice in the absence of her daughter and husband. She could even re-marry if she so wished. Yes, her mother would be glad. It only made sense. Now, Dante and Mewtwo. Foolishness was not something she liked in herself, and she was aware of what they were – powerful. Important. More than her, at least. She could tell that she was a burden to them, too. Dante had that girl waiting for him in his hometown, and Mewtwo could roam freely if she was not holding him down. It was clear to her that she was interrupting their duo, becoming an awkward third wheel. Surely this was better, and they, too, would be glad? Her father had attempted to teach her unselfishness, and this must be that, for it would be selfish for her to continue to drag them around with her. They were simply too kind to state the obvious and up and leave, so she would release them from her grip. This was best. This was what they wanted, whether they knew it or not. She knew it, and that was what was important.  
  
Suddenly, Belle felt an acute pain on her fingertip, and she didn’t need to open her eyes to know that she had started to press slightly harder on the knife, and thus accidentally cut herself. Were she to open her eyes,though, she would see the pinkish-orange light of the sunset spill in through the skylight and wash over the bathroom.  _Now._  She reached down again and picked up the object by the handle, settling the point over her left wrist. She took another settling breath, taking one more moment to contemplate.  _‘I’m coming, Dad. I’m sorry that it’s taken this long, but I’m coming home.’_  
  
Carefully, to ensure that she didn’t end up making marks that would look stupid on a corpse. She angled the knife how she wanted and then forced pressure on it. She let out a low hiss, her previously open hand now in a fist, flawlessly manicured nails sinking into the heel of her palm. Blood pooled around the metal, before starting to gush out. She took a moment to just sit like that, before dragging it down. She let out a sound resembling a choking cat, but bit it back down, tears appearing at the corners of her eyes. She endured it, though, because the physical pain was just  _so much better_  than the emotional pain. She ripped the knife out, nearly dropping it in the process. Blood poured out now, washing her deathly pale wrist and lower half of her palm with it. Gritting her teeth, she passed the knife to her left hand, which was quivering with the effort of being propped up against the side of the bath.  
  
She repeated the action on her other wrist, but the job done was slightly messier and done slower, on account of her being right-handed and it being much harder with a weakening arm. Tears streamed her cheeks now, and she was distantly pleased that she’d chosen water-proof makeup. The knife clattered next to her, and she felt her body go limp, if not a little numb. Pain throbbed up her arms, making nausea settle in and the urge to throw up increasing rapidly. She held it back, though. Belle rested her hands on her dress, effectively staining it with blood. Her head lolled to the side, white hair cushioning it. A lazy smile graced her lips, even as she shuddered in pain.  
  
 _“Do you believe that killing yourself will solve anyone’s problems?”_ As far as a lifesaving line that wasn’t the best of them. It did stop Belle from sinking further from consciousness and that was the intent.  
  
Belle’s eyes opened slowly, tentatively, as she took in the sight of her still-empty bathroom. Mewtwo. She shut her eyes again and relaxed. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t –  _couldn’t_  – understand. She didn’t fault him for it, though. It was bliss to not feel like this, and she was simply fixing the problem.  _“Go back to playing with Dante, sweetie. I can’t talk right now.”_  Normally her mental tone would be somewhat condescending, especially here in Iclea, but at the moment she just felt too tired to maintain anything other than a mildly interested tone. She didn’t want him here for this, in her head. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t what he needed.  
  
“Forgive me if I ignore that request. It might be the last time we speak to one another and I’m attempting to understand your reasoning behind this permanent decision you’ve made. You’re attempting to kill yourself because you feel as if you’ll lift a burden from the people around you?” The curiosity in Mewtwo’s mental voice didn’t even sound condescending, just genuine. “Would it be too much to explain that thought process to me?”  
  
She sighed and slid her eyes open again, gaze slightly unfocused. She didn’t know why she opened them, really, because there was nothing to see. Just an old reflex, apparently.  _“Not attempting, succeeding.”_  After a pause of deciding what to say, what would hopefully make him back off the most, she continued,  _“There comes a time in every human’s life when fucking bad shit goes down and it’s far too much for their overloaded brain to handle and they commit suicide. It’s no big deal, Mewtwo. Everyone’ll understand. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Death is the solution to all problems’?”_  Admittedly, it was Joseph Stalin who had said that, but, still. It applied, didn’t it? Yep, it did. This time, she didn’t shut her eyes, figuring he would have some form of reply to this.  
  
“I fail to believe that your team will understand why they no longer have a maternal-figure in their lives or that Dante will understand why you didn’t come to him. I fail to understand why you didn’t come to me before attempting this.”  
  
Belle winced, and had to take a moment to process her answer. The blood loss was making her feel a little dizzy, and she was working to keep her gaze upwards so that she didn’t have to see. She hadn’t thought about her team, selfishly enough, but it’d hardly affect them.  _“They’ll be released back into the wild and, maybe, one day, can have a new trainer who suits them better and can handle them.”_  At his next thoughts, she grimaced.  _“You may not have noticed this, but I’m not all too comfortable with discussing my inner feelings. Just ask my therapists. Any of them.”_  She fully respected Mewtwo as a Pokemon, really, but he was no psychologist, and when it came to therapists, she only went to ones with at least three highly respected legal qualifications. She was a little picky with who she talked to.  
  
At some point the psycat must have entered the bathroom through a window or even by walking down the hall disguised as “Marcus” because Belle saw Mewtwo leaning into her line of sight, frown lines indicating his displeasure with her decision. He did nothing but look at her for a moment before responding again.  
  
“Do you honestly think that any of your team is capable of living out in the wild again? They’re strong but you took them from the wild before they could properly learn to care for themselves.” Mewtwo continued speaking as he psychically turned her hands palms upward to inspect her wrists. They were slit right down the vein and in a ragged way that would make stitching her wounds up difficult but not impossible. “Celisse was born and raised in captivity. She’s never once lived without help from humans. Do you think she’ll somehow magically learn how to hunt without impeding on a stronger Pokemon’s territory? Her attitude alone will get her killed. Gabrielle will grieve herself to death...”   
  
He trailed off to look down into her face more closely, waiting to see what her response would be.   
  
Belle frowned at the newly-appeared Mewtwo, having only just noticed him, and considered his words. He had a point, albeit not a good one – in her current mindset, at least.  _“My mother won’t let them die in the wild. She’ll have the best take care of them and help them adjust. Stop assuming I’m just going to let them collapse and die.”_  She felt faint tugging, and he had creepily moved her arms to stare at them. She shut her eyes for a moment, resting, before adding,  _“Like I said, they’ll be fine. Celisse will adapt. I love her dearly, but this is best for all of us involved.”_  Her gaze then turned somewhat accusatory from her lower vantage point.  _“Gabby likes you. You won’t let her die, will you?”_  
  
Mewtwo returned the accusatory glare. “No, in an effort to honor your memory she’ll likely look after them well but Gabrielle is a Gardevoir, the Embrace Pokemon. She’s an empath and the grief she’ll feel for you along with feeling your team and family’s grief will kill her no matter what is done for her.”  
  
This was nothing more than laying guilt onto Belle but unless he took control of the girl’s mind and forced her to a hospital he didn’t know what else to do. Mind-controlling her was a very tempting idea but not a solution to the problem in its entirety. It was just a bandage for a much deeper wound.   
  
Belle paused, before shaking her head slowly, hair promptly half-covering her face, but she made no move to fix it – she’d get blood everywhere. Her eyes drifted to the wounds now, blood still cheerfully running out. Mm. Her arms still throbbed with pain, but it was fading quickly to a blissful numbness, despite the fact that she could feel her strength waning.  _“No, no.”_  She tilted her head to look at him better.  _“Aren’t you an empath, too? Can’t you do something for her? I don’t know erase memories? You’re good at that.”_  Normally, at this stage she’d fall back into talking, but she couldn’t right now. It seemed like too much effort for nothing. Thinking was slightly easier, although it hurt head a little to concentrate.  
  
 _“Empathy was one of the passive psychic abilities my creators thankfully kept from developing in me,”_ said the psychic, invisible hands moving Belle’s hair from her face, _“and while I could easily erase the memories of you that your team holds I wouldn’t because then they would lose months of themselves in the process. They would have no idea where they were or how they came to evolve and it would only put fear and pain into their minds.”_  
  
Belle shuddered a little when she felt her errant hair pushed out of her line of sight by an unseen force. It was always so  _strange_ , but she couldn’t complain. She sighed, still looking defiantly up at Mewtwo.  _“Can’t you tell them something? Do something? For Arceus’s sake, you’re an all-powerful Psychic, and you’re telling me that you can’t conjure up a story to put them at ease?”_  She huffed, annoyed. He still didn’t get it. Why didn’t he just leave? He didn’t have to be here, he could have left with Dante already. He really was an odd thing.  
  
 _“I can. I wouldn’t. That would destroy their memory of you.”_ Mewtwo ignored the glare he was receiving and continued talking. _“Do you think your father would want you to kill yourself?”_  
  
She shrugged, about to reply with ‘You don’t – didn’t – know my father’, but that wasn’t the point. She continued her sullen look, though, guilt setting in. No, he wouldn’t want her to throw her life away for him. He wouldn’t want to be selfish like that, and neither would Helena. She made a noncommittal noise. He would want her to continue with what she had been doing, even if he hadn’t originally approved. She knew he would, and it burned. She still wanted to know what he was working on, though, but it couldn’t helped. She lowered her gaze from him. There was still so much she wanted to do, but couldn’t if she did this. Still . . . wouldn’t it be better? For him, for Dante, for her mother? Apparently not for her team, though, which made her slightly miserable. He was right, she couldn’t just up and leave them, she had grown so close to them, even if Celisse still volunteered to burn the first new Pokemon she saw to a crisp. It was a personality flaw they were working on.  _They_  were working on it. Who knows would happen if she lost her? She’d probably have a go at everyone and rampage around. Or sleep. It was always hard to tell with Celisse. Gabby, though, would be difficult. She sighed, looking up at Mewtwo again.  _“I don’t know if it’ll even help.”_  She looked pointedly at her wrists.  _“Kind of screwed now. Not much I can do.”_  
  
 _“I could stop the blood from flowing out of your body and take you to a hospital where no one would know or remember your face,”_ he offered.   
  
Belle chewed her lip for a moment, and then stopped. It hurt and took too much effort. Slowly, she nodded, but reluctantly. She assumed he meant he would screw with their memories, for which she was grateful. They’d already released the news of her father’s death to the public, so going outside much was not really an option, but she trusted Mewtwo to do what was needed.  _“Alright. Take me to a good one, though, not a crappy public one.”_  She offered him a half-smile, hoping to go soon. She could no longer feel anything in her arms, and it was slowly but surely spreading. That was not good.  
  
 _“Of course.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Written mostly by my friend Kat as part of a writing challenge in our old Gaia guild but I did help out as much as I could. Sadly we are no longer speaking though I do not know her exact reasoning for distancing herself from me or from all of our friends. Perhaps her parents had a hand in it. I do not know. Needless to say, this is the only piece of work that we ever worked on together exclusively and I treasure it for what it is. 
> 
> Kat, if you happen upon this and want me to add you do this story as a co-author then I am certain that you know how to contact me. I use the same username on Skype as what you last knew me as.


End file.
